The Crimson Path
by UKEagleclaw
Summary: "Nothing is eternal. The Crimson Path will descend, infect, and soak your Clan, and there is nothing you can do to stop its flow . . ." Young Silverpaw is finally named a warrior of RiverClan, but his Clan are weaker than they've ever been, and with threats pressing in from all sides, Silverpaw's ambition will be tested as RiverClan is unravelled by a silent menace.


**THE CRIMSON PATH  
** **A WARRIORS FANFICTION  
PROLOGUE**

There were cats everywhere, so many that Willowstar struggled to distinguish between them. The Clans of Thunder and River blended into one mass, a mass that twisted and pushed against itself. She forgot why they were here at that moment—until she shifted on her paws, amongst the carnage, and spotted the silver rocks: Sunningrocks.

The throbbing heart of all of their animosity.

Thunder and River circled around it like crows, like rats looking to pick at the bones, the flesh, the remains of whatever was left. She saw Sunningrocks for what it was now—a disease that had haunted the Clans for generation after generation after generation, ever since the river had changed its course and stranded her Clan on one shore.

 _A sign perhaps_? she contemplated now. Time had slowed around her. She saw everything for what it was, is, and would ever be, and she could find no satisfaction in it. Thunder and River kept circling again and again and again. The cycle refused to break until a flame, bright and determined like a million stars, spiralled up from between the cracks of the rocks, blazing into the sky, clearing all darkness away, and leaving a field of starlight in its place.

Below, the cycle broke. The mass separated. She could recognise her Clanmates again, see them in the light. The two apprentices, Silverpaw and Dapplepaw, were fighting together, side by side, against two ThunderClan apprentices, bruised but determined. Her loyal deputy Fallenfang reared up on his hind legs and swiped, a powerful strike that knocked his opponent down. Brindletuft, the tortoiseshell she-cat, fought ferociously, ears flattened, like two cats, as though she was fighting for more than just her Clan. Reedwatcher, the promising but nervy young tom, whipped away from his opponent's blow, his tail, long and thin, curling out behind him. The ThunderClan warrior hissed and swung another paw, but was met with the same result. For a RiverClan warrior, his opponent was as fast as lightning. A pale grey she-cat darted across her vision, rushing over to help a Clanmate. And Brackenfur—a warm sensation filled her chest at the sight of her nephew—he fought . . . It didn't matter how he fought. Willowstar was proud of him, so proud. He would have made his mother, her sister proud of him too, she was sure.

The starlight dispelled so suddenly it surprised her. It was neither light nor dark. The forest was caught between the two forces, eternal in their opposing of each other. The mass did not return; she could see her Clanmates—but they were not the same as before. An ooze, thick and red, spurted out of the centremost rock. The dark current dribbled down the rest, unnatural. It passed her, sucked at her paws and stole the air from around her. Her lungs gasped for breath, but she could find none. The ooze gurgled something inaudible as it passed her, her Clanmates, the ThunderClan warriors—claimed them all—until it had consumed the rocks. It didn't matter what they were fighting over anymore. She tried to rip her paws free, but could not. She felt weightless, as if she might be sinking into the ooze, and she saw her Clanmates again in a different light . . .

. . . bloodied and scarred, like her, covered in the ooze, only some defining features visible. She didn't feel like a leader any longer; nine lives didn't matter. She felt old, weak, as fragile as a brittle leaf in leaf-fall, a part of the cycle, a path that never ended, that ran and ran and ran until there was no end, no in between, no start, no nothing. It was just there, a path they were all on, one which they could not get off, that there was no escape from, that there was no leaving. She witnessed her life in reverse, image by image, her mistakes, her successes, and realised there was no difference. Nothing would change. She couldn't change it. She couldn't stop it from happening. She was an observer, nothing more, and she accepted it, accepted it all. What difference could _she_ make?

Her eyes, her vision flickered, and the ooze retracted. She was able to lift her paws free as it crawled past her, away, returning to whence it came. Her Clanmates were back to normal now, not that she would forget the crimson current, and she could move among them while they fought, slow and methodical, knowing their movements, knowing what their roles were. She scrambled up the rocks, near to the top, looked down. It shouldn't have been as far as it was, but she could have been standing atop Fourtrees, considering the distance down to the ground in this distorted reality.

She might have lowered herself back down, but a figure at the top of the rocks surprised her—Silverpaw, the young apprentice, crouched above her, looking older, fangs bared and claws unsheathed, fur bristling, his muscles bigger than any apprentice's she'd ever seen. It was him, she was sure of it despite his appearance, and he was at the centre of it all, he stood where no one else walked, at the pinnacle, where no one else could reach. Willowstar trembled. Something . . .

. . . Pushed her.

And she fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Until nothing remained but ash.

And a whisper:

"The Crimson Path, it flows and it flows. You cannot stop it, you cannot change it. You can only walk it. You cannot swim against the current. It will catch you. It always does, always will. Its design, its cycle are endless. You cannot hope, for you cannot stop it, cannot change it. No one knows its function, no one has glimpsed it but those beyond the stars. Hope as you might, you cannot alter the course of what is to come."

Everything changed. Willowstar was falling no longer. She blinked. The ground—no, Sunningrocks—was hot beneath her paws. The sun was a blaze of light in the sky, white and blue . . . white and blue . . . white and blue . . . She shook herself. She opened her mouth, but could find no words. But she heard the yowls around her, flinched at their harshness. She blinked again, trying to do something, anything to stabil–

The rocks jumped up to greet her. She fell against more of the boulders, stinging and harsh, and landed on the ground in a clumsy heap of limbs. A blur approached her, the damp stench of pine and oak. She tried to rise, to recall memories of seasons past to her mind, when she would fight and fight and fight again. But it all seemed pointless now. She flopped back down, exhausted, and stayed there. The forest-scented blur closed in. She didn't know what was going to happen, didn't care really.

Another blur sprang into the one who'd just been approaching her. A familiar scent entered her nostrils. She blinked. If she could just make sense of what was happening–

A voice hummed into her ears, inaudible at first, time after time, until . . .

"Willowstar! Willowstar! Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Fallenfang? Ugh, is that you . . . ?"

She could not recognise her deputy. His eyes were gaping holes, shadows. There was no light blue, no indicator of RiverClan left, only shadows and blood, blood that dripped all around him, fell from the tips of his fur and tail like rainwater from leaves.

" _Get away from me_!" she shrieked, so unexpectedly that Fallenfang flinched, backed away a little, then approached again, more slowly.

"Willowstar . . . ?"

And she could see him again, her loyal deputy, the grey tom with light blue eyes. He stood before her, concern emerging above all else. She shook herself slightly, looked around. There was no blood, no shadow, no voice. She panted. Air, she needed air. She gulped, her chest heaving. Panic all around her in the guise of chaos. She didn't know what to do. Her mind was blank, came up with nothing but frightened thoughts she wasn't used to. She gathered herself up, shakily, and looked to her deputy with wide eyes. "Retreat," she murmured, breathless. "RiverClan, retreat."

Fallenfang nodded. "RiverClan, retreat!" he repeated, his voice ringing out, separating River from Thunder, putting an end to the battle.

Willowstar looked around herself. ThunderClan were watching them flee with triumphant smirks. It might have sparked anger in her chest before, but now . . . now she felt nothing but emptiness. She trailed after her Clanmates. Fallenfang beside her, pushing her on, supporting her, as Sunningrocks became a forgotten sight behind her, as she heard the voice again, nothing more than a whisper:

"You have been so successful, but RiverClan's dominance, as greenleaf fades to leaf-fall and then to leaf-bare, cannot last forever. The Crimson Path will descend, infect and soak your Clan, and there is nothing you can do to stop its flow . . ."


End file.
